


Let me take your burdens away pt.2

by RockSaltandCherryPie



Series: Let me take your burdens away [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-23
Updated: 2013-11-23
Packaged: 2018-01-02 10:37:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1055783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RockSaltandCherryPie/pseuds/RockSaltandCherryPie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The repercussions of the previous night...<br/>Dean regrets what he did. Sam doesn't let Dean carry the burden of it, lets him know what happened is okay, is what he wanted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let me take your burdens away pt.2

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place season 2 during/after "Playthings."  
> I didn’t think I was going to even continue it, since I did kinda want the first part to stand on it’s own, but what the hell! Haha. I didn’t want to stop writing so. There you go.

By the time morning hit and Sam finally began to stir, Dean had already had his breakfast and coffee at the place downstairs (it was included every morning with their stay). He had planned on chatting it up with some of the residents or other guests staying at the inn but couldn't get his mind to focus on the hunt at the moment. Instead he sat at one of the tables in the spread out dining area, swirling his coffee around in the mug, staring outside through one of the windows.

_Sammy rubbing against him, moaning against his cheek, fingers sliding down his sweaty neck..._

Dean blinked a few times then rubbed his eyes, trying to get all of the images from last night out of his head. The truth was, he was dreading going upstairs in some way. He wasn't sure what to say to Sammy, if Sammy would even remember anything from last night, that is. When he left him this morning, he had looked so peaceful, sleeping on the opposite bed, sun rays creeping through the curtains to dance on the tops of his shoulders and across his back. But somehow it was like when the morning came, reality came along with it; littered with burdens and morals and generally the eye of the outside world. And Dean felt like he was carrying it all. After all, _he_ was the one that hadn't been drinking, _he_ was the one who should have known better. God damnit. This was so stupid. He should just go upstairs and act like nothing happened. Yeah. Then they could both solve this case and hunt the evil son of a bitch that was dropping bodies and everything would fall back into place again. Normal.

When Dean entered their room on the second floor, he noticed Sam was out of bed, crumpled sheets in his wake. He heard some groans on his left and found Sam there, in the bathroom, kneeling miserably around the toilet bowl.

"You okay?" Dean asked, lifting a brow and putting his back to him, loading up one of his guns. They were going to solve this case today, he knew it.

"I can still taste the whiskey," Sam groaned.

When Dean finished loading his gun with rock salt, he began fidgeting with it, turning it over and over in his hand, testing all the functions and making sure everything was in working order for the hunt.

"Hey," Dean started, his tone rough. "Turns out when Grandma Rose was a tyke she had a Creole nanny who wore a hoodoo necklace." He didn't get to tell him that last night.

"Dean..." Sam offered gently.

"I think she taught Rose hoodoo." Dean quickly interrupted. "We should go talk to her." There was a ball in the pit of his stomach, bouncing around. Dean wanted to grab it and rip it out.

"Come on, brush your teeth. I'll be outside." He left the room, pulling the door shut behind him. He wavered in the empty hall for a moment, then rested against one of the walls.

When Sam emerged, their hunt resumed as normal.

Neither of them spoke about the events of last night, but it was hanging on the edge of their lips and in the air, almost physically visible, threatening to be brought up at every moment, even when they seemed to be preoccupied talking about something else.

 

xxx

 

The hunt was done. Turned out the one causing all the trouble was a dead little girl named Maggie who wanted some attention from her sister, Rose.

 

The day was almost done, the sun low in the sky in the distance, and Dean leaned against the impala, tossing the keys around in his hand. "Feels good getting back in the saddle, doesn't it?"

Drained and visibly distressed though trying to mask it through slightly upturned lips, Sam said "yeah, it does." Dean noticed Sam slide a hand across his stomach, obviously trying to soothe it.

"What's wrong?" Dean asked, watching the movement.

Sam looked up, oblivious. "What?"

"Your stomach hurt or something?"

"Oh, no... Just repercussions of last night I think... With all that alcohol consumption, I mean. My body's not used to it." It was true. Sam didn't drink often. It always hit him hard when he did.

"Yeah... You were wasted..." Dean said, and then added hopefully: "Bet you don't remember much from last night, huh?"

Sam just looked at Dean. And my god, that _look_. It was a look that said, quite plainly, he remembered _everything._ A look that was so aware. A subtle darkness behind his eyes. Just like last night, when their arms were wrapped around each other, when Dean was moving inside him...

"Look, Dean..." Sam started again.

Dean turned and opened the door to the impala. "C'mon, gotta hit the trail if we want to get any road covered by nightfall."

 

xxx

 

In the impala, driving down some unknown highway, night's veil almost completely over the sky, Sam spoke up.

"Dean, look –"

"Sam," Dean shook his head, protesting any conversation. They didn't need to talk about this.

"No, let me talk." Sam was stubborn, though, as usual. "Look, what happened last night..." (Dean cringed and gripped the steering wheel tighter) "Don't think that this is all on you." And there it was. Dean had no idea how, but Sam always knew _exactly_ what and how he was feeling, even if he didn't even know it himself.

Dean shook his head, jaw clenched.

"Yeah, I had been drinking, but I _wanted_ you to do it, Dean." His voice was small, but he was exhibiting bravery for even mentioning what Dean would never bring up.

Still, Sam searched for words. "I just... Just know that." Sam looked over at his brother. "Okay?"

Dean nodded, though he wasn't sure why. Sam's words didn't give him too much reassurance, despite their intentions. He flipped the radio on, letting the classic rock boom through the speakers, muting everything else: the sound of Sam's soft voice lingering in the air still, his breathing, the sound of him shifting on the leather next to him...

And then Sammy was settling up against the window of the impala, getting comfortable enough for now until they pulled into some motel for the night. The road over the dashboard seemed to stretch into infinity.

 

xxx

 

They pulled into the Sleep Well Inn at precisely midnight, and the sound of the engine rumbling off woke Sam out of his sleep.

They got the keys to their room and went in, tossing their bags inside, suddenly grateful for beds.

 

And suddenly Sam was stripping out of his shirt and Dean hated that he almost took a double-take, watching the first garment fall to the floor, then the second, and suddenly he was unbuttoning his jeans and slipping out of his shoes. After the jeans were off, Sam walked over to the bathroom door in his boxers and placed his hand on the inside of the frame.

“I’m ‘gonna take a shower,” he said before disappearing and shutting the door behind him.

Dean could barely form a nod, but even if he did, Sam was already out of sight.  

 _Oh god,_ Dean thought, _Sam probably wanted to take a shower because he felt dirty… He probably wanted to take a shower because his muscles were aching… Stupid. Stupid._

Dean sat perched on the edge of the bed and listened to the water start up. A few seconds later and the tempo of the water broke as Sam presumably stepped in. _Okay, it’s just a stupid shower. Just go to sleep,_ he told himself in his head. And so he slipped his own shoes off and wriggled out of his jeans and overshirt, then leaned back against the headboard of the bed and turned the TV on with a tiny remote. Some soap opera came on and he flipped to the next channel. Porn. The girl was whining stupidly, huge breasts flopping around in front of the camera. He made an impressed face but then flipped to the next channel.

The minutes passed. Dean settled on the channel that was playing an old Eastwood flick, and munched on some corn nuts he had picked up a few days ago at a convenience store. More minutes passed. Sam was in the shower for quite a while.

Just as the half an hour mark hit, Dean thought he should do something. Standing by the door to the bathroom, he wrapped one finger on it a few times.

“Hey, you alright in there, Aquaman?”

No answer.

“Sammy?” His tone was slightly more rigid this time, a ball forming in the pit of his stomach. But then the water stopped. When Sam opened the door, he was dripping wet, little flecks of water all over his skin and in his eyelashes. He held a towel around his waist and smiled at Dean.

“What?” He asked incredulously.

“Oh – I, uh… I thought… You were in there a while,” Dean shrugged. “My bad.” And he walked away toward the bed again, exhaling sharply.

“I thought you’d be knocked out by now,” Sam said after shaking his head, and walked over to his side of the room and retrieved some fresh clothes from his bag.

“Nah dude. The Good, the Bad and the Ugly is on.” Dean settled back into his position against the back of the bed.

Sam rolled his eyes and grinned, turning his back to Dean, and from the corner of his eye Dean could see the towel collapse onto the ground, exposing all of his firm, golden skin. A languorous cowboy on the screen lifted his hat off his face for a moment, said a few words to another, then slowly placed it back down again. The distinctive whistling sound, like a coyote, played in the background. Sam’s hard curves moved in Dean’s peripheral, bending over slightly as he slipped some boxers on. _God damnit, was he doing this on purpose or something?_ And he slipped a t-shirt over his damp hair and then he was on the opposite bed, settling himself against the headboard just like Dean was.

A few minutes passed in silence. Dean’s eyes lay fixed on the screen, but his mind was elsewhere. Sam couldn’t get comfortable beside him, on the other bed.

Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw Sam reach over to the nightstand and grab the remote. He switched the TV off, just as the characters were about to have a shootout. The screen went black and silence immediately followed.

Dean looked over, exaggeratedly confused. “Dude! That was the best part.”

Sam sat on the edge of his bed, facing Dean. The bright golden light from the lamp next to him was illuminating all of his features: his damp hair, falling in clumps in front of his face, his slightly upturned eyebrows, expressing a delicate intensity.

“Dean, can we talk? I mean… is something up?” Sam asked, not pulling his eyes away from Dean.

“What? No.”

“You seem distant.”

“Sam, I’m fine.”

“Then why won’t you look at me?”

Dean turned toward Sam, then sighed and rubbed at the back of his neck. The truth was, Dean didn’t know why it was so hard to look his brother in the face. It was almost as though he were afraid to see him differently now, after what happened. But now that he stared into those eyes, those glossy, emerald eyes, he realized nothing was different at all. Obviously. This was _Sammy._ “Look, I’m sorry, alright? Is that what you want?”

“Dean,” Sam seemed to search for words.

“I’m tired, Sam. Can we talk in the morning?” Dean reached over and turned the light off. Blackness engulfed the room. He no longer saw Sam’s features so clearly, so close to him… He turned on his side, facing the door, his back to Sam.

He heard Sam sigh, small and almost masked by the heavy darkness of the room.

“Go to sleep,” Dean told him, putting on his best authoritarian voice. He had lied about being tired, though. He wasn’t tired at all.

Silence. Good. The stubborn bugger was finally going to drop the subject. And Dean was just starting to think what’s in the past should stay in the past. But then, after a few minutes, Dean heard some shuffling and then the squeak of old bed springs and then there was a weight pressing down behind him, on his own bed. Sam was getting under the covers. Dean felt his pulse quicken. _What…_ And it was a feeling that was vaguely familiar but had been lost somehow over the years. But as soon as Sam was pressed up against him, so warm and smelling so good, like fresh shampoo, Dean remembered. It was nothing, but they hadn’t done this for a very long time. And now that he felt it again he remembered how much he needed it. And craved it. Closeness. Sam’s body heat. Not seeing his little brother but _feeling_ him, just knowing he was there, protected, and that they were _together._ How it was always meant to be.

And then Sam’s hand trickled over to Dean’s hip, rested there for a second, then moved to wrap around his stomach. At first it was like Sam was trying to feel him, to get as close to him as he could. But then he exhaled and seemed to just bask in it, in the warmth, in the comfort.

Dean’s heart was beating fast. He could almost hear the blood pulsing in his ears, beating out a hastened rhythm. But then, as the seconds passed, he began to calm down and relax into the embrace, and _god, it felt so good._ _And warm. And Sammy._

He brought his hand down and engulfed Sam’s hand with his own, letting their fingers intertwine slightly over Dean’s stomach. And then he let his fingertips caress Sam’s knuckles soothingly, making tiny circles. He heard Sam let out a small sigh, and then he felt his face press up against his back, in between his shoulder blades. Dean brought Sam’s hand up and loosely hugged it to his chest, almost locking their bodies together perfectly.

Dean knew Sam must still be feeling like crap about himself, otherwise he would never do something like this. Whenever he would do this as a kid it usually meant he was scared or lonely. So Dean just held him like he always used to, letting him know he was there.

“Dean…” there was a small sound against his back, almost too muffled to make out.

“Yeah?” Dean’s voice was raspy and dry when it came out.

A few moments passed in silence. Then Sam’s warm breath pressed against Dean’s back again. “Do you think I’m a good person?”

The words that came out were no surprise to Dean – he knew that’s what had been plaguing Sam’s mind still – but nevertheless they nearly shattered Dean’s heart. He sighed briefly before turning around in the bed to put himself face-to-face with his little brother.

“Sammy… How could you even think something like that?”

Sam looked like he had last night: troubled, exhausted, eyes misty and reflecting what little light was creeping through the motel window. They were both encompassed in the warmth of the bed, a safe haven from the troubles of the outside world.

“I just… I don’t know any more.” His voice was small, hurt.

“Hey,” Dean said, finding his eyes. “Don’t you ever think that. Ever. Do you hear me?”

And in an instant Dean wanted to hold him, stroke through his hair, tell him everything was going to be okay. But somehow that seemed juvenile now, so instead he brought up his hand to meet Sammy’s where it was resting open against the mattress and rubbed his thumb in gentle circles in Sammy’s palm. And that was enough for Sam to feebly shut his eyes for a moment and close his fingers loosely around Dean’s.

“Sammy,” Dean said in almost a whisper. “You’re as good as they come.” And he wasn’t even sure if he had heard him or fallen asleep already, but then Sam opened his eyes again, heavy-lidded and glazed over. They stared deeply into each other, somehow past just the surface of their eyes, and Dean swore some of the feelings of unity from last night returned. And then they both relaxed, letting silence and sleep fall between them slowly until nothing remained but the sound of their breathing, so faint, intertwined.

 

xxx

 

Sam got up in the middle of the night. Dean felt it before he heard it: the shift of the mattress, the absence of warmth. And then finally the squeak of the faucet turning on in the bathroom. Sam came back out with a small cup filled with water, and sat down on the edge of the bed, taking small sips. A faint light had been turned on, and dim orange pooled around the bed.

“You okay?” Dean said in a low voice, propping himself up on his elbows.

Sam slipped back into bed next to Dean, nodded against his shoulder tiredly, said “yeah.”

Sam’s hair brushed against Dean’s cheek, soft, heat emanating from it and from Sam. Sammy was so warm, and Dean’s heart began thumping in his chest again. When Sam’s smooth, hard leg skimmed over Dean’s shin, a shiver ran down his spine despite how hot it was under the covers. Dean began to feel a heat rising in his body, despite how hard he was trying to ignore it. _No. Shit. Not again._ But Sammy was barely doing anything, right? He just wanted to be close to Dean, to feel he was there, and then he would fall asleep again. But then Dean didn’t understand why Sammy couldn’t get comfortable, kept pressing closer to him and _rubbing_ , legs against legs, and _fuck._ He felt his dick give a little jolt when Sam’s thigh ghosted over it.

“Sammy…” Dean started. He refused to settle back down onto the bed, letting his ever-weakening elbows support him.

Sam didn’t stop, just kept shifting, causing slow friction between their bodies, skin on skin. And his wet mouth, cold from the water, was open against Dean’s shoulder.

The _moving_ , the _rubbing_ , was making Dean almost dizzy. Sam’s thigh slid between Dean’s legs and he tried to stifle a groan.

Sam found Dean’s mouth and hovered there, letting their breaths mingle. “Dean,” he said softly. “You can’t go on pretending that last night never happened.”

“Sam…”

Sam pressed his lips against Dean’s gently. And Dean thought he would never need anything else in the world other than this. Sam’s sweet taste, the headiness of both of their hearts racing together, body heats rising…

Sam’s hand rubbed up Dean’s chest, bunching the fabric of his t-shirt in a loose fist. “Please… I don’t want you to.”

The night was their sanctum. That much was clear to Dean now. Time stood still, only for them. Nothing mattered anymore except the touch, the longing, the heat. Dean began moving with Sam now, turning into him and reaching his hand up to his face. He let his thumb press and rub against Sam’s lips, feeling the dampness, or maybe trying to dry them from the cool water that still resided there, making them look glossy and so fucking kissable. Sam moved into it, craving the touch. And then they were kissing, their mouths moving together in one hot, wet collision. Dean forgot all about his hesitations earlier, and even last night. Both on their sides, they pressed into each other closer, losing everything in the kiss, mouths moving rapidly. Dean let a hand smooth down the curve of Sam’s side slowly, intricately, as if taking in every inch. When he reached his hip he slid his palm up under Sam’s shirt and made his way back up, this time feeling Sam’s hot flesh underneath his fingertips.

"I don't want you to forget," Sam breathed into his mouth.

Dean's eyes turned dark, sad. "I could never..." – Sam's hand came up against Dean's chest under his shirt – "I just... I wanted to be sure this was what you wanted..."

"Dean... I've wanted this for..." Dean waited, brows wavering. "I can't remember when I didn't."

Dean shut his eyes, thumbed across Sam's ribs and shakily exhaled when Sam's thigh rubbed between his legs.

Then Sam's hand came up and took Dean's (now still) hand in his own, gently dragged it down. Together, their hands trickled down Sam's smooth chest, over his stomach... "It's okay, Dean..."

They never removed their eyes from each other. Sam let go of Dean's hand just as Dean's fingertips were over his abdomen, but Dean continued the motion, slowly, carefully.

He had touched Sam's dick last night, hell, he had _fucked_ Sam last night, but it was almost as though now, since they were both completely sober, they had to cross over that boundary much more gingerly.

Dean let Sam's already hard dick slip in his fist, loosely at first, gradually getting tighter. Sam shut his eyes and melted into Dean, letting out a small whimper. Dean found his mouth, leaning in, and they didn't quite kiss as much as they let their open mouths hover around each other, as a couple exchanging smoke would.

When Dean thumbed around the tip, already wet and slick, Sam let out a hitchy breath and reached for Dean, hands trying to find a resting place but failing. He bit his quivering lip and Dean just watched, thinking he had never seen anything more beautiful in his life. And just the thought that Sam had been wanting this for as long as he could even _remember_ , same as Dean, the feeling that his unnatural lust for his brother was reciprocated, he wasn't just _insane,_ was the ultimate comfort.

After they got their shirts and Sam's boxers out of the way almost blindly, Sam began moving in time with the thrusts, and Dean's strokes became more persistent, working his way down to the base then back up again. He could feel Sam getting harder in his grip with every thrust, could hear his breath quickening.

"Dean..." He said through a heavy pant, fingers grasping at the firm skin of Dean's chest, almost bruising the muscles underneath. Then he let his tongue peak past his teeth, searching for Dean's mouth again. When it succeeded, he let it idly wander up Dean's lips. Dean tightened his grip even more as Sam's cock reached full hardness. He didn't even need to look at what he was doing. Making Sam feel good was second nature to him.

Sam began writhing around now, almost as though the intense pleasure was verging on unbearable, and then he began breathing so heavily he was almost wheezing, but still Dean followed Sam's movements and kept his steady rhythm on his cock.

And then Sam's body was rising, rising... And Dean felt his cock spasming in his hand, spurting out creamy ropes of white that adorned his stomach so perfectly.

Gradually, Dean slowed his movements, loosening his grip on Sam's spent come-slick cock.

Before Dean let him go, he rubbed over the tip one last time and it made Sam jerk again, letting out one last spurt of white.

Dean's lips formed a small smile. "Perfect..." he whispered, before sliding his hand up Sam's stomach, caressing the damp skin.

Sam was on his back now, trying to catch his breath, but he smiled and brought Dean into a kiss by the neck.

Dean moved over him, dragging a leg in between Sam's. His dick pressed against Sam's hip through his boxers which he hadn't bothered to remove. The friction from Sam's hip, the way it dipped in, the damp heat that was seeping through the thin fabric of Dean's boxers and mingling with his own pre-come, was enough to almost bring Dean over the edge. But then Sam starting moving with him, kissing him rough and wet, and whispering little reassuring words into his mouth.

Dean was so close... Desperately craving more friction... And then it was almost as though Sam knew exactly what he needed because he hastily reached down, pushed Dean's boxers out of the way, and closed his hand around his achingly hard dick with such determination it made Dean almost collapse right on top of him. Dean rocked his hips forward into Sam's fist, letting their foreheads fall together and their breaths mingle – of course, Dean's were coming a lot quicker than Sam's. A couple more thrusts and Dean’s face buried in the crevice at Sam’s shoulder and he completely lost it, pumping out release in Sam’s hand and all over his chest.

“Oh, god, Sam –” Dean uttered, all of his muscles tight, his cock still contracting as Sam slid slick fingers across the head.

Sam gave a soft moan of admiration and then released his grip, bringing his sodden fingers up to his mouth and ghosting a tongue over them. It turned Dean on more than it should have. He couldn’t get enough of his goddamn brother under him. He pressed in abruptly, tasting Sammy’s mouth, his fingers, and yeah, his own come. _Fuck, it was so fucked up,_ but he didn’t even care. Dean caressed Sammy’s cheek with his thumb, pulled away, looked into his eyes… looked over his face, over his lips, over the impeccable placement of that dark fleck on his cheek, just at the edge of the curve of his nose… And if this was his last moment in the world nothing at all would make him happier. It was all okay. Sammy was smiling up at him, and he felt so worn out but so invigorated at the same time, and all of his logic and all of his senses muddled together until he didn’t care about any of them. Because nothing right now existed for him. Only Sammy, only his little brother.


End file.
